It’s almost April Fools’ Day.
It has been almost a year since I last liked someone enough to have the courage to confess.
(The case with J is different because 1. I like him more than how nothing like ‘like’ has ever been defined; but not quite as sure as ‘love’. And 2. The risks of my ‘infatuated-girl-confession’ outweigh the benefits of our true and lasting friendship. And you can really do away with this paragraph worth of words in parentheses because they’re not related to the subject at hand at all. So on a different note and different boy, I was saying…)
I remember how I impatiently waited for April 1 to pass before I - very subtly - told him I liked him because I didn’t want him to think I was playing a prank for April Fools. LOL. So on the morning of the following day, he knew how I felt for him and I knew he felt the same way. (Cue song: This could be the start of something new! *HSM soundtrack) And at that moment I was sixteen again and for the next 3 months since then. That was the closest I could get to an experience of young love, which is a cliche in itself. Of falling hard and heartbreak.
Now, it’s already a year since. And I’m just taking this chance to remember and appreciate the magic time can do. It’s like riding on the clock’s long hand as it moves farther away from the short hand with every passing minute. Like how we try to forget, forgive and move on. But at some point we meet again like when the clock strikes twelve, and we remember how it once felt to be together like that. But that’s all that they will really be - just memories. Because the clock hands don’t stay together for long and at twelve ‘o clock and one, we go back to how life goes on for us. No matter what happened to us in the past, good and bad, time will not stop. And neither should we.